Like millions of other Royal Family fans, I stalked the internet, news stations, and gossip websites for the name of the new princess. I oohed and awwed at the first precious pictures of that sweet, little face, and was blown away by Duchess Kate’s grace, fantastic hair, and ability to pretend she wasn’t wearing mesh granny-panties under that dress. But I wanted to know her name! Just tell us already! And when we couldn’t wait a minute longer, they released her name and it was PERFECTION!

I have to wonder how much time and energy, maybe even a pow-wow in a war room in the palace, went into naming the new princess. Sure there are all sorts of rules that the future king and his lovely Duchess must take into consideration when naming their daughter, but was it anything like the ordeal I went through naming my boy?

Maybe your kid will make it through school nickname-free but you just so happen to pick the most popular name that year and your kid’s name morphs into their first name and last initial–Nice to meet you, I’m Amanda M. because there are 10 of us.

Or what if you have nine whole months and hours of discussions about the perfect baby name but you find yourself waddling into the hospital to deliver a baby that has no name. NO NAME!

There were no personalized toys in our nursery or little signs with our first born’s name waiting for his arrival because no matter how many baby naming books or websites we checked, my husband and I could not agree on a name.

I’d love a name and my husband would hate it.

He’d suggest a name and I’d suggest divorce.

I’d mentioned a name to colleague and some moron would say something really stupid about the name and immediately they and that baby name were dead to me.

I’d always hoped for a Junior but my husband shut that idea down quickly. He felt like having a junior might be a lot of pressure or an annoyance for our boy because he shared his dad’s name. So that name got tossed onto the pile of other no-names like Greyson, Charlie, Ben, and Noah.

So here we were, in the hospital, holding our nameless bundle of joy and my husband says,”Well what about Preston? We both didn’t hate that name. Wait, why are you crying? What’s wrong??”

Through tears and wracking sobs I forced out “He’s NOT A PRESTON”

And on cue, enters the chipper nurse, “Do we have a name for this boy? You know, you can’t leave until he is named but you have up to a year to change his name!”

My husband’s eyebrow’s perked up at her last comment and I snarled at him over the head of our sleeping newborn.

We were going to be released in a few minutes, but our inability to name our baby made my blood-pressure-info rise so high I had to stay in the hospital until it lowered to a safe level.

Husband: “Well that just gives us more time to name this kid, right?”

Me: “……..”

Husband: “Should we grab another baby book?”

Me: “………”

Husband: “So, no?”

Me: “No. Just. Name. This. Kid.”

I threw the paper work at him, rolled over, and silently plotted his demise. A half hour later, he furiously scribbled on the social security form, folded it up and slid it over to me.

Aaron. Just like his daddy, my boy became my Aaron. And it was perfect.

So that sweet dark-haired and tan skinned baby that I brought home from the hospital, here’s who he became. So handsome, right? And soooo not a Preston. Just a perfect Aaron. My Aaron.